A Ship Named After A Gallant Queen
by ariel2me
Summary: For the prompt: Davos Seaworth & Betha Blackwood Black Betha.


The captain had told Davos to be swift, and _swift_ Davos meant to be. He was the youngest shiphand, the latest one taken on by the captain of the Cobblecat, and the boy lived in fear of losing his position even before the ship had sailed.

"Get me that good ale from the tavern, boy." A strong brew, for the captain and his guest from Lys. The barrels and barrels of weak, watery ale aboard the ship would not do for this guest, this fancy guest dressed in silk and samite.

Davos carried the two tankards of ale back to the ship with trepidation, trying to be swift while not spilling even one drop of the ale. Or not spilling _too_ much, at least. His eyes switched back and forth between the tankards he was holding – one in each hand – and the road ahead, his feet moving as fast as they could, his lips murmuring the reminder, "Mustn't be late, musn't be late."

He completely missed the lady in black, coming from his side.

They collided. And he spilled the ale all over her dress.

Rough hands manhandled him, first pulling him away and then pushing him down to the ground, trying to put some distance between him and the lady, as if he was a dangerous brigand out to harm her. "Let go of me!" Davos shouted, struggling to break free from their iron clutches. "I didn't mean the lady any harm. It was an accident!"

The lady's voice rose above the commotion, ordering the two men – her guards, Davos assumed – to let the boy go at once. They obeyed swiftly, releasing Davos from their grasps, while still keeping two pairs of wary eyes on him.

Davos struggled to get back on his feet, his eyes fixed on the overturned tankards on the ground, both completely emptied of their content. His heart sank. He groaned with despair. The captain had only given him enough coins to pay for those two tankards of ale, nothing more. His own money, what little he had managed to save so far, was securely hidden in the cabin he shared with the other younger shiphands. Could he get to it without the captain noticing that he had returned to the ship empty-handed, without the ale? How long would _that_ take, to go back to the ship, run back to the tavern, and then -

"Are you hurt, young man?"

Davos looked up to see the lady's concerned expression. _I'm not a young man,_ he almost said. _Not yet._

She was not young, the lady in black, contrary to Davos' initial impression. Old enough to be his grandmother, in fact. Not that Davos had ever known either one of his grandmothers. Her hair had numerous streaks of grey and white mixed in with what must have been its original color – black, as black as the darkest of ravens Davos had ever seen. The streaks of grey and white had almost completely overpowered what little remained of the black, however.

The color of her dress – also black – made the wet spots caused by the ale Davos had spilled when they collided less visible to the eyes. But they were there nonetheless. Davos cursed his own recklessness. _You fool! What if the lady demands to be compensated in coins for her ruined dress? What are you going to do then?_

The voice he heard in his head was the voice of the first man who ever paid him a wage to do a job. _Say you're sorry, boy. Say it quickly! Them lords and ladies love to see us kneeling and groveling at their feet._

 _But I don't want to kneel or grovel to anyone!_

 _Pride can't fill your empty belly. Pride can't give you the coins to compensate the lady for her ruined dress._ _The price of that dress alone could feed you for a moon's turn, or perhaps even a full year, for all you know._

Davos knew well enough what it was to be hungry, from past experience that was not so long in the past. He immediately went down on both knees. Trying to sound as contrite as he could manage, he began, "I beg for your forgiveness, m'lady. Your dress -"

"It will dry out under the hot sun soon enough," the lady interrupted, not caring overmuch about the dress, it seemed. "But why were you in such a rush, young man? You could have collided with something or someone more dangerous than an old woman, and really hurt yourself."

The ' _young man'_ was a courtesy, Davos finally caught on, possibly because the lady thought it would be rude to address him as ' _boy.'_

 _An old woman_ , she had called herself. She did not look frail in any way, the lady, despite her age. She looked robust and sturdy, as stalwart as an aged oak tree. But the force of the collision could still have knocked her down and hurt her. Now Davos was _truly_ feeling guilty and remorseful, rather than merely pretending to be. "I … I could have hurt _you_ , m'lady. I am so sorry. More sorry than you know."

She held out her right hand. "Rise, young man. There is no call for you to kneel in my presence. You have not committed any crime for which you deserve to be punished. Now tell me, what is your name?"

Davos stared at the hand she was offering him with wonder mixed with disbelief. No lady had ever … what should he _do_? Wouldn't it be impertinent of him to touch her hand, a lady's hand, _he_ , Davos of Flea Bottom? But if he rose to his feet while ignoring the hand she was offering him, would that be an even _worse_ offence?

While Davos was still busy arguing with himself about what he _should_ do, another voice addressed him. "Are you going to refuse a lady's hand, lad?"

Davos looked up to see the possessor of that gruff voice. He was _very_ tall, this man. One of the tallest men Davos had ever seen. His cloak was plain, unadorned brown, near enough the color of Davos' hair. He was staring at Davos with a half-stern, half-amused expression on his face. Davos took a deep breath and replied, "The lady has not yet forgiven me, m'lord."

"I'm not a lord, merely a knight," the man said, before asking Davos, "Do you mean to remain down on your knees until the lady has forgiven you?"

"Yes, m'lord ... I mean, ser."

"But the lady has commanded you to rise. Will you disobey her, thus compounding your earlier transgression against her?"

Davos looked stricken. The lady in black scolded the tall knight, though she did this in a fond and affectionate tone, rather than an irritated one. "You should not tease the boy so mercilessly, ser. He is not one of your squires." She turned to Davos and said, "I have forgiven you, young man. Now take my hand and rise, and tell me your name."

Davos took hold of the hand she offered him and rose to his feet. Her hand was warm, so very warm. He was almost reluctant to let go, but he knew he _must_ , so he did, swiftly. Only then did he speak. "Davos, m'lady. My name is Davos."

"Davos of King's Landing? Or are you a visitor to our fair city?" she asked.

"Of King's Landing, m'lady."

 _Davos of Flea Bottom_ , he could have said, but he did not want the lady to pity him. And in any case, he was now being paid a wage to sail around the world. Davos took fierce pride in this.

"Where were you taking the two tankards of ale, Davos?" the lady asked.

"To the docks, m'lady. They were for … for my father. And for his guest, who is an old friend my father has not seen for many years. This friend has just returned from a long yoyage across the sea," Davos lied.

 _I had to lie!_ he insisted, to the scolding voice of the septon who used to feed him when he was still that orphan boy wandering the streets of Flea Bottom. The Cobblecat was not just a trading ship; it also engaged in smuggling. Davos did not think the captain of the Cobblecat would be happy to have his business paraded about in front of an unknown lady, no matter how nice the lady seemed to be.

"Will your father be angry, to find that you have spilled his ale?" the lady in question asked.

"I expect he _will_ be," Davos replied gloomily, his mind already imagining the captain's wrath. Then, noticing the lady's very concerned expression, Davos quickly added, "He'll not flog me or starve me or anything of that sort, m'lady. His tongue is apt to be very sharp at times, but I'm used to that. It does me no great harm," he tried his best to reassure her.

The lady turned to one of the guards who had earlier manhandled Davos. She gave the guard some coins and told him to fill the empty tankards with ale from a tavern. "Which tavern did you go to earlier?" she asked Davos.

"The Pale Horse, m'lady, but … but you don't have to -"

"It was partly my fault, the collision," she said to Davos, after the guard had left carrying the empty tankards. "I was … well, I was worried about my husband, you see, and I was not really looking at the road ahead."

"But _I_ was the one who rushed into you, m'lady. It was _my_ fault," Davos insisted.

"We were both at fault," the lady said, with a smile. "Shall we agree to that?"

"Yes, m'lady," Davos finally replied, after some hesitation.

The guard returned carrying two tankards of ale filled to the brim. He did not return alone, however. He was accompanied by another lady, a younger one, who bowed her head and curtsied to the lady in black. Then she caught sight of the tall knight and said, "You are here after all, Ser Duncan. What a relief. But I see that you are not wearing your white cloak."

"I am trying to blend in with the crowd, as Her Grace herself wishes to do," the tall knight replied.

"Even without your white cloak, your height would still mark you out in _any_ crowd, ser," the lady in black teased him.

 _Her Grace? White cloak?_ "Are you … are you the queen?" Davos sputtered.

The younger lady finally noticed Davos. "What an impertinent boy," she remarked sharply. "Apologize to Her Grace at once! And you must address our queen as Your Grace when you are speaking to her."

"Never mind that, Lady Rosby," the queen interjected. Turning her attention to Davos, she said, with a twinkle in her eyes, "I have asked you _your_ name, Davos, but you never asked me mine. That does not seem quite fair to me."

"Your name? But … but … you are the queen, Your Grace."

"Queen is a position, not a name. And it is certainly not the name given to me by my father and mother."

"I .. I do not think it is my place to ask, Your Grace."

"There is no harm in asking."

"What _is_ your name? The name given to you by … by your father and mother?"

"Betha. I was given the name Betha by my father and mother. Black Betha, some called me, though my father was never fond of that sobriquet. He thought it encouraged my willful tendencies, you see. Though, I never quite understood why he believed this. It was not as if I was called Stubborn Betha, or Headstrong Betha."

"Were you called Black Betha because your hair used to be completely black?" Davos asked, his curiosity completely awakened.

Lady Rosby gasped, audibly. "That is a _most_ improper question. _Most_ improper. Her Grace's hair is none of your concern, you impertinent boy."

The queen herself did not seem to mind. She laughed; an eager, rich, deep-throated laugh that stayed in Davos' memory long after this short encounter. "That was not the _only_ reason, but it was certainly one of the reasons," she replied. Then, smiling, she added, "You remind me of a boy I used to know, long ago. He was fond of asking questions many people would consider improper or impertinent as well."

"Were you fond of this boy, Your Grace?"

"I was, yes. _Very_ fond," the queen replied. Her smiled faded, and she looked very sad, suddenly.

Davos wondered if he was dead, that boy. Perhaps he died young, and never lived to be a man at all, _any_ kind of man. Or perhaps he grew up to be the kind of man the queen was not so fond of, unlike the boy he had been.

Davos' speculation was cut short when he remembered _where_ he was supposed to be.

"I must go! My father -"

The queen quickly commanded the guard who had gone to the tavern to hand over the two tankards of ale to Davos. "Ser Duncan will go with you, to explain to your father why you are late in returning," she said.

"No!" Davos exclaimed. "It's very kind of you, Your Grace, but really, there is no need. No need at all," he insisted.

The tall knight had been staring at Davos, but now he turned his gaze towards the queen. "I think the lad would prefer to return on his own, Your Grace," he said, quite empathically. The nod he gave Davos after he spoke those words consumed the boy's thoughts for many nights ahead. Did Ser Duncan suspect that Davos had been lying about the ale being meant for his father? Did the knight suspect that Davos did not have a father at all, or none that he ever knew, in any case?

"Does your father work at the docks?" the queen asked, before Davos left.

"He's a hired hand on a trading galley, Your Grace."

"Are you going to follow in his footsteps?"

"Yes, Your Grace. To begin with, at least."

"To begin with?"

"Only … only I hope to captain my own ship one day." Looking down at his feet, Davos mumbled, "Perhaps you think that is a silly dream."

An orphan from Flea Bottom, dreaming of captaining his own ship.

"It is not a silly dream at all," the queen replied. "Perhaps we will meet again one day, Davos of King's Landing. When you are the captain of your own ship. A ship named after a famous sailor or a gallant knight, I'm sure."

 _Or a gallant queen_ , thought Davos.


End file.
